


my reach is global, my tower secure

by sabinelagrande



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Marquet (Critical Role), Other, Post-Campaign 1 (Critical Role), Shaun Gilmore/Happiness, common ground, homecomings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 09:52:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17547419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: Shaun Gilmore returns to Marquet.





	my reach is global, my tower secure

And one day, Shaun returns to Marquet.

It is not permanent; it's not even a long stay. But now that it's been confirmed that his teleportation circle still exists, it's nothing to appear there again, back in seconds.

He would have genuinely been saddened if it had been destroyed. He made it himself, casting the spell every single day, the time shortened by fine, very expensive materials but still taking a full six months. Every time he cast it, he thought about leaving; somehow it didn't strike him that it was a thing for coming back.

Coming home feels like slipping on an old robe. It seems, at first, familiar, even comforting. His parents are still alive and overjoyed to see him; they hug his neck and make him copious amounts of food and listen raptly to his stories. He hears his mother bragging about him as she hangs his clothes to dry in the sun, the neighbor on the other side of it sounding suitably impressed.

But it takes little time to remember why robes are to be replaced: it's because you outgrow them. They become less and less and less comfortable over time. The people here are strangers now, but they were strangers even then. Somehow after everything he still cares for his parents, but that's as far as it goes; that's as far as it ever went. Every interaction seems to chafe and pull, all these people who think he owes them something, even if that's as small as news of his shops.

It is exhausting.

Shaun has been in town for a few days before the messenger comes. If he was hoping to maintain any sense of privacy, this blows it. He can only remember once or twice something like this happening, a summons not to be taken lightly. It certainly didn't happen to him, and he would have gossiped just as wildly as he knows people are at just seeing the letter.

It is not addressed in the flowing script of Marquesian, doesn't spell the familiar but distant characters of Geddmore; instead it reads in the blocky lettering of the common tongue: Shaun Gilmore.

One thing Shaun is definitely, absolutely not going to do is ride all the way from Shandal to Ank'Harel. The reason he looks as good as he does is that he got out of the habit of letting himself be sandblasted every thrice-damned day. His magic got him out of the desert, and he's not going to stop using it just because he came back.

He says goodbye to his parents, speaks a few words, and then he's standing at the base of J'mon Sa Ord's towering palace.

The guards start to unsheathe their weapons, but Shaun doesn't let himself look frightened. "I would have thought my reputation preceded me," he says, opening his hands.

One of the guards, looking more official than the others, signals for them to hold. "Shaun Gilmore?" she says.

"The very same," he says, with a winning smile.

"Be pleased," she says, and the other guards go back to their resting states. "You are expected."

It's a dance of attendants and majordomos and probably minor domos too, but Shaun is led up and up, through levels of the tower, finally arriving at the top. The room provides a stunning view of Ank'Harel, and Shaun dares to step closer and look over the edge.

"Vertiginous," a voice says from behind him.

"That's one word for it," Shaun says, turning to see the doors closing behind J'mon. They look exactly as Shaun remembers, though for the briefest second, he swears he sees the form of De'vossa instead. "It's good to see you in happier times."

"Likewise," J'mon says. They are dressed simply, their feet bare on the floor; Shaun knows it's pure calculation, but it suits them. "We never did get enough time to talk."

"We were definitely not in happier times," Shaun says. J'mon seats themself in the larger of the two chairs that break up the wide, empty room, lounging on it in an easy kind of way. Shaun takes the other one; he doesn't try to look relaxed, because he'll lose that game. That doesn't mean he feels ill at ease, either. For the first time since he got back to Marquet, he feels like he can breathe easily.

"Will you drink with me?" J'mon says, hand hovering over the pitcher of wine that sits on the low table near the chairs.

"How could I refuse?" Shaun says, and J'mon fills two glasses, handing one to him.

"One such as myself does not deal in 'never,'" they say. "But I did not expect to see you again."

"Things were very different when we met," Shaun says. "You should know that all that fighting is not exactly my forte."

"A lover, then?" J'mon says.

He laughs. "To your health and long life," he says, clinking his glass against J'mon's.

There's a brief pause as they both sip their wine; it is, of course, exquisite. "I assumed you had adopted Tal'Dorei entirely," J'mon says, lowering their glass, and Shaun thinks of his name on the envelope. "Why have you returned now?"

Shaun sighs. Somehow he feels unable to lie to them; whether it's magical means or just presence, it really doesn't matter. "In the end, I couldn't let my parents die without seeing me again," he says. He does a flourish with one arm, indicating the room and the city in general. "I love what you've done with the place, but Marquet will never be my home, not even Ank'Harel."

J'mon chuckles, a noise Shaun thought he'd never hear, but one that sounds so natural now that he has. "Ank'Harel is not my home," they say. "It is my lair. I made it from a scrap of desert and my will. I hoard citizens, money, the scent of fine spices and oils. I do far more than live here." They lean forward. "I own it outright."

Shaun thinks of his holdings, Emon to Kymal to Westruun to Whitestone; the only reason he's not in Kraghammer or Syngorn is because he's not a dwarf or an elf, respectively. With what he's been through, each copper he takes is rightfully his, bought in wars with dragons and gods and a desert hamlet where his mother sewed him hoods to hide his forehead.

"Now that sounds much more familiar," Shaun says with a smile.

And he and J'mon do talk. There is much to discuss; J'mon has, unsurprisingly, heard some details of new, experimental magical items that Shaun is working on. They have insights on what to change, what to explore next, and Shaun starts to wish he'd brought something to write on.

The conversation changes, grows, news from Tal'Dorei and goings-on in Marquet. It is somewhere around this time that Shaun realizes that the wine is refilling itself, but that just seems like good planning. It makes the conversation easier; Shaun has never been opposed to the kind of kinship that comes when one's deep in their cups.

"What do you want most, Runechild?" J'mon says, and on their lips the term sounds fond, playful, nothing like the threat it always was before he left.

"That's quite the question, De'vossa," Shaun returns.

"And yet I wait for an answer anyway," they say.

"An abundance," he says.

"Of what?" J'mon asks.

"Coin," Shaun says. "Happiness. Friendship." He tips his wine glass to them. "Good wine. The finer things."

They sigh. "And I wait for an answer still."

"That was a genuine answer," he says.

"It wasn't," J'mon says, which is probably true.

Shaun considers it more deeply, running a finger around the rim of his glass. "I want to be comfortable," Shaun says. 

"And are you?" they ask.

"In Shandal, of course not," he says. "With you, I actually think I am."

He said it without being sure how J'mon was going to react, but they lean forward, pressing two fingers gently in the center of his forehead. He feels the prickle of energy that tells him his rune is visible, but for once, that doesn't seem like a problem.

"I see you, Shaun Gilmore," J'mon says, lifting their fingers.

"And what do you see?" Shaun asks, not even sure if he can handle the answer.

"I see a man who wants for nothing and yet yearns," they say. "I see a man who pretends to be driven by coin and yet fights for what is righteous no matter the cost."

"Is that all?" he says, though he feels it in his chest, the pang of being cut open but the lightness of being understood.

"I see that you are about to kiss me," they say, sounding amused.

"Do you see your reaction?" he asks, though he's already moving forward.

"Let's find out together," they say, and Shaun closes the distance between them.

And Shaun will return to Tal'Dorei, his home; he will pick his life back up and thrive in it. He will not miss Marquet, not in the slightest, and nothing about seeing it again will entice him to visit. He has done what he needed to do, cleansed his system of it; he has discharged his responsibilities to Shandal and everyone in it, not that he owed some great list of things to anyone there.

But if he sends a letter or two to Ank'Harel, that's his own business.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] my reach is global, my tower secure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434219) by [kalakirya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalakirya/pseuds/kalakirya)




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